


Cemnahin

by millionthline



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Culture Shock, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Elf Culture & Customs, Exploration, Fantasy Racism, Homophobia, Languages and Linguistics, M/M, Multiple Religion & Lore Sources, Orocarni, Rhûn, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-16
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-05 11:05:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/722493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millionthline/pseuds/millionthline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cemnahin is a Dwarf in Elrond's house, orphaned until it was decided that he was to be reared by the Elves; Fíli is a prince of Erebor, and after the quest to reclaim the mountain he sets out to the west and finds a jewel that no city of Dwarves could hope to rise from stone beds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. in the rings of the wooden circle

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Tolkien's _The Children of Húrin_.
> 
>  **Notes:** There are several characters that will appear in this story that may not have ever been noted in The Hobbit or the LotR trilogy, and that is because I have taken them from the online game LOTRO to serve my purpose when involving plot progression or getting through certain scenes. Thus, they will not be marked as original characters, as they are indeed a part of the game!verse.
> 
> On the topic of updates, I can't promise that they will be fast. However, if my interest and determination stays with me throughout my time working on this piece, I will most certainly see it through.

Kíli was his name.  
  
His place was not in a wagon shrouded with fog and shade, under a night sky that shed no light. It was in his blood, the blood of Durin, to sit in halls that dropped into mines of gold scattered like waterfalls down dark stone. In the early starts of dawn, when the Blue Mountains rose from the very lone end of the sky in the distance, his eyes gazed there unknowing of the solitary mountain of his people. Kíli was too young to have understood, as at that age he was only beginning to learn his words, his mother’s face and brother’s tender touches, his massive dwarf of an uncle, who always patted his head and felt the downy hair that crowned it. For him there would only be the small imprint upon snow that marked his family in memory before it melted into the air, and fell as rain as the tears that those he couldn’t manage to remember cried.  
  
They called the Elf a mystic, one who could conjure the furthest traces of the future from a long gaze at a blue sky. But he was nothing of the sort, and Dís knew this as she stared into Elven eyes across a campfire flame. Eglamír he named himself, and he leaned near the heat, his gaze piercing hers.  
  
“The babe in your arms,” said he, “has an air of fate.”  
  
“And you would know of it?” Dís returned, the child in arm pressed closer to her breast.  
  
“Yes,” came the simple reply, and the Dwarf who sat across from him fell into a state of rebuke. However, her nod pressed him, and he drew his arms about himself, as it was a cold night, and their breaths parted from their lips like pipe smoke. “Not unlike the fate that has befallen others in the passing of ages. That which is inflicted upon him will befall those close to him as ill and mournful, though he will not know to think it as such. But, that which he chooses to inflict upon himself will not be birthed from pain, nor grief; he will grow to love those who are closest to him now.” He paused, and waited for the offense on her face to pass, before he continued, “but one love will not be the same. It will be spent in kindled flame, unknowing, and only blood will combat to quench its heat. It was in the river, in Ulmo’s murmurs; the sky reflected its running flanks, and the sun danced upon its linings. There the river told me so.”  
  
Thus was told the fate of Kíli, a name that would serve him but a few short years until he was spirited away in a wagon of strangers. The moon was tucked behind a crown of mountains, and the sky was spread thinly in cloud, the peaking stars passing above to greet his family as he left them and went ever west. A day of cries stole his throat of sound, and the second brought recognition from the thieves that took the cart by a sickly look and pale skin. After that he was better looked after, as they had not the heart to leave the small youth to starve.  
  
Soundless in sleep he was in, wrapped in the furs of his father and a cold on his skin from the absence of his mother, when yet again the wagon was fought over by sword and blood. His gaze etched the black of the wagon's wooden bowels, fear and confusion causing his heart to dance like feet on coals. When the sun had touched blue into the sky and the back of the wagon was opened, he hid under all that he might. There the doors were shut and he was unseen and left in a shaken state.  
  
Two days he held there, biding his time in the lonesome shadows and eating what had been left by the people before in the small storing chest. Then, while the wagon moved on the edge of the wild and still ran with the Eastern road, a wheel splintered and he hid again while repairs were made.  
  
The next fall of red on spring-rain mud came swiftly from gleaming blades and arrows shot from horseback, and the small Dwarf wept; but it was too late for the brigands to hear him. They never knew he was there, because at seeing the banner of the Valley and catching the gleam of Elven hair in the cool morning light, they took arms and shot at them with cross-bows. Those on steeds that ran to dodge the arrows at first had no intentions of harming the younger Children of Ilúvatar, but upon arrow's flight they smote them down and inspected the wagon when hearing the child.  
  
It was the first time in what seemed like a lifetime that comforting hands, soft and warm, held him and steadied his gasping breaths. Golden hair unlike any other he'd ever seen fell over the sides of the Elf's face, and eyes bright and brown gazed long at the young Dwarf. A hand was placed on his brow. "Ten springs you've seen, and most undoubtedly not all as unkind as this."  
  
Unintelligible babbles escaped from the youth's mouth, and Glorfindel of Imladris smiled and carried him to his steed once the wagon's possessions were looked over and bodies buried. Then they rode, light and carefully for the sake of the child. With that he began his life under immortal eyes, which saw his braids and his beads and remembered them. The beads were kept with Glorfindel, who strung them loose to comb the boy’s matted hair on their first night together as they camped under the stars.  
  
The beads and braids told of lineage and wealth of family, but through days of them being unkempt, wrung constantly by toddler hands, they were impossible to read. Being wrought of simple silver as youths’ often were, they told no stories beyond that of a good life under caring guardians. For that at least the Elf was glad, as his heart had been sorrowed to see the Dwarf in such a gruesome state. He put the boy on his lap and cared for his tangled hair, thus marking the first of their friendship, as Elves did not often toil over the grooming of others.  
  
"I feel," Glorfindel said, when his long, nimble fingers were finally able to comb through without resistance , "that we will come to be friends. This, however, I do not wish for. I wish for you to go back home." Then he turned the Dwarf to face him, gently holding his shoulders, and asked with the last of his hope, "where is home for you, _henig_?"  
  
If the youth were able to answer, perhaps his beads would have been given meaning, and the scribbled map of his braids a key to help in reading them. However, ten Dwarven years were not enough to learn words, so when he was brought to Elrond's hall and could not give his name, the elf-lord knelt before him and smiled sadly. "We will try to find your parents, child of stone; this I promise." The youth only clutched onto the cuff of Glorfindel's boot and was gathered in the blonde Elf's arms to be carried and cared while searchers were sent out.

The wilds in ages before were easily traveled and guarded by the men of the Northern King. But in a time where a wyrm desecrated the halls of Dwarves and hoarded their treasures, and goblins began to stir under the once-peaceful mountains, words of a single lost Dwarf child did not easily spread. In Bree a single family of fallen royals sent word of reward or the return of their missing child, and the story spread to the Blue Mountains and in the Shire. But in Rivendell, word of it was passed over the Misty Mountains, as once the wagon had hit the Eastern rode it went away from them. And so the stories did not cross the wilds that separated them, and still the Dwarf remained nameless and orphaned.

Elrond's promise had been filled, though it was not concluded with joy. Long did he search, and several times he rode out and spoke to travelers, but by some ill fortune no tale of a family with a missing child was ever told to him. Because of this he once again called the youth to him, and with an early winter sun crossing high above them, he brought the boy to the gardens with Glorfindel.  
  
"Ondohin, stone child," the Elf named him, and with this title he was beckoned after for a short time.  
  
Glorfindel, however, knew the child he longest. He watched over him and was amused when he returned to the halls and trailed mud and grass and twigs upon the threshold, and often were leaves caught in his ever-knotted hair. In cups sealed with silk cloth stolen from dining tables all sorts of beetles and butterflies would be caught, and at night the dark corridors of the Last Homely House would be twinkling with the stars of dancing fireflies brought in by a pair of mischief-led hands.  
  
He was more of a trouble-making woodland fairy than a child with traits of stone, so Glorfindel bestowed upon him the name Cemnahin, the earthen child, and it was the name that he long after wore. Elrond saw a spirit of all things good and green in him as well, so he took to it gladly.

* * *

Day after day his comings and goings around the marketplaces and bordering trees were spent with Glorfindel, and with him he found comfort in his first vital years. Dwarves learn what they may of the world early, and the Elf knew that it was necessary to make sure that there was as little difference from his little friend and those who surrounded him as possible, lest he feel alienated by his own fostered people. Their kind did not often call each other friend, but Cemnahin was named as one of them in the Sindarin tongue, wore their clothes, and studied their history and letters as any other Elf would, so Glorfindel did not want him to be outcasted for his race alone.  
  
Cemnahin, as he began to learn his words, seemed to be full of them. They spent much time with Cemnahin as he sat between the Elf of golden hair and the Lord of Imladris, the youngest speaking joyously about the stones in the city or worms in the garden, the sweet bread in the market, and they were gladdened at this new perspective given to them on all that surrounded them. Though immortal they both were, to see through the eyes of a child was lost to them until then, and they reveled in the new world they found themselves in.  
  
Just as well, for as time passed, their company was less sought after (though not forgotten) as Cemnahin began exploring the tree-line that bordered Rivendell and discovering the fair woods and equally fair Elves that spread over the rest of Imladris. In trees the wood-Elves sang to him when he first stepped on the grass below their dangling feet, and it was trilled in jest and overall silliness:  
  
 _Who is it that tramples on green grass below?_  
 _Which creature approaches; is he friend or foe?_  
 _His feet lay down heavy, his hair streaked in mud_  
 _Footsteps heard far off, and close land in a thud_  
  
 _Dwarf of the Valley, a Dwarf merry met_  
 _His manner so youthful but frame heavy-set_  
 _Ah! 'Tis a sad time for Cemnahin to stay not_  
 _And leave without singing, to have us forgot_  
  
 _What woe! what woe would be befall this lot_  
 _To see such an opportunity left unwrought_  
  
"Cemnahin!" called one standing from his perch. "Not one weapon on his person; an ill thing indeed! Do you not know of the hunger of the tree-Elves?"  
  
"It is said to be quite tremendous indeed," another remarked, and at Cemnahin's flustered look they laughed good-heartedly. "Come! there is much song and story to be had in the tree-tops."  
  
Though by then eighteen springs had greeted his face with fresh winds, and eight marked his time in Rivendell, child-like gullibility was not completely lost to him. "I haven't a weapon!" he fretted, and their silver-tongued mouths let chortles slip once more.  
  
They leaned down from the limbs of the tree and helped the youth up to a new world where his coltish foibles were mended to use in parry and speech; his eyes sharp for catching unattended dinner platters were taught the leaves of herbs; his mind that had absorbed Glorfindel and Elrond's lessons learned the plant names, as well as Silvan sentiments and lyric; his fingers were taught to shoot a short bow rather than stones into stagnant pools after sweet summer rains.

* * *

A pale morning birthed and blossomed out from a purple twilight sky, and the Dwarf stood in the trees, eyes unblinking and the winding sinew in his arms stretching and aching at pulling the bowstring. It was new and felt ill-fitted, but there was no other way around it; his first bow, a gift from Elrond, had grown too small as he grew. No longer was he the slight child they all knew before: Cemnahin felt a strength stir within him at his thirtieth spring, and it began to form the tight arch of his back, the angular bow of his hips that led to his sex. Faint wisps of hair, equal to the color and down of a whitethroat's wings, began sprouting without end on his chin, and they were shaved every morning.  
  
By Dwarven reckoning he was still a child, and by an Elf's only a mere sapling, but as years went by Glorfindel's assurance of his place with the Fair Folk faded into uncertainty in his mind. In height Cemnahin became sorely aware of how the top of his head only met up to the mid-thigh of most others, and where Elf's faces were smooth his grew rough with hairs waiting to spring from underneath his skin. Because of these reasons he found himself parting from his frequent company more often, leaving alone to the woods from Elrond's house as soon as the tip of the sun began its climb up the valley's head. The others noticed and worried, suspecting that these signs of oncoming adulthood were causing him discomfort.  
  
His arrow flew, and its metal point lodged into the ribbon-marked target though the trees. His arm had quivered with strain at pulling the bowstring, but he figured that this would cease in due time. He would grow in strength, and his shoulders would broaden and take a shape akin to those that the Dwarves in Rivendell's books bore. And for all the pride he was taught to have in his race, one that he'd only ever seen in his bedchambers through a mirror, he did not wish for that to happen. Save height, Cemnahin was pleased with his figure: lean and slight, and muscles lithe, like those who surrounded him.  
  
There were few, if any at all, who didn't hold even a slight liking for Cemnahin. In the home of what he thought as overly stoic immortals, he was a light of youth that danced with innocence and childhood joy, and for that no dislike was ever harbored for him. So, as he stooped down to place his new bow on the ground before sitting himself, staring at the dirt and freckled grass for longer than normal for the energetic youth, Lindir broke cover from the trees to greet him. Not long had he been watching, only from when Cemnahin was still contemplating his shot, but worry grew in him at seeing the boy sit and look so lonely.  
  
Surely, there were ways to remedy loneliness. " _Arasil_ ," the servant of Elrond said, and Cemnahin turned and brightened with a smile. A woman's name, _little deer_ , but Lindir said it fondly, so the boy took to it as such.  
  
"Master Lindir! What are you doing here?"  
  
"I was walking," he replied, and at asking with a gesture if he may sit aside the Dwarf, Cemnahin beckoned him over. After he sat, he continued. "I thought that I might find you here; you are becoming quite good with your bow."  
  
"Thank you," Cemnahin replied, and his grin turned prideful. "Elrohir says that ere next winter I'll be able to accompany the hunting parties!"  
  
"Does he?" Lindir asked, and he leaned forward when the boy pointed at the target. There the arrow was, in the rings of the wooden circle, not quite at the center but not badly shot either. "Would you shoot again?"  
  
The Dwarf nodded eagerly and stood, bow in hands and eyes steady. He reached behind him to draw another arrow from his leather quiver, its leather trimmed in fine white patterns of thistle and vine, before drawing back and feeling the ache once again. However, in spite of what shudders his arm gave, Cemnahin's aim was true, and at his second arrow's flight it hit nearer to the center of the target. He dropped his arm in frustration and sat back down heavily, and Lindir rested a hand on his arm.  
  
"You are very good," he soothed, and the boy smiled faintly at the ground. He didn't quite believe the Elf, though his words were true, but the warmth of the palm reassured him. Blue eyes turned to the tree canopy, and Lindir's hand dropped to rest in the grass. "Do you know of Erebor and Durin's folk?"  
  
At the Dwarvish name he nearly frowned, but in spite of himself Cemnahin shook his head and said, "no, but I think I shall now." An angled eyebrow rose, and his lips still tugged upward.  
  
"That you will," Lindir said, and he knocked the boy's shoulder for the sarcastic response; but nonetheless, he was pleased to see his Arasil drawn away from his prior loneliness. "Erebor, the Lonely Mountain and once a stronghold to great lords of Dwarves. In the east it stands solitary, but its halls were accompanied with music and feasts like no other, and its roots mingled with those of Greenwood, whose Elven people were friends; with Dale as well, and Esgaroth, cities of Men that kept good relations with the Dwarves.  
  
"Those with the blood of Durin sat on Erebor's throne. Under their rule great wealth was begotten, and fame of their halls flooded with gold and jewels of quantity unrivaled. Grand were its doors, it is said, with breadth as wide to fit a dragon." After that he hushed, and Cemnahin pouted.  
  
"They were all friends, then, all the races?" he asked, wanting to hear more, and Lindir brightened.  
  
"Yes," he confirmed, and added more pointedly, "despite their differences they were bound by friendship."  
  
Cemnahin blinked thoughtfully, and thought aloud, "I'd like to go to Erebor." Then, brow furrowing, he added, "you speak of it as though it's no longer there. Did something happen?"  
  
Lindur looked grim once again, and his eyebrows turned in the way they usually did when concerned or upset. "Ah, yes. The Lonely Mountain was the gem of the East, but dragons desire nothing more than jewels and gold; a wyrm from the north came one morning out of the blue, and the halls of Erebor were taken and sacked."  
  
"A dragon?" Cemnahin echoed, eyes wide with disbelief.  
  
The Elf nodded, but shook the boy's shoulder. "Let us not speak of such things. Now, let me show you a trick."  
  
"Alright," he replied, though upon the Dwarf's face a grimace had grown, and they stood and Lindir took the bow. It was a strange thing to see him with a weapon in hand; Cemnahin couldn't recall any time before when he had. However, he was naive to think that the Elf didn't know how to shoot a bow, and realized this when he tested the string, examined its arch, and launched his own invisible arrow to the target. He could see it now, just barely visible as it whistled by, and _thunk!_ Dead center.  
  
"Very good," Lindir murmured to himself, and studied the wood only a moment longer before beckoning the Dwarf, who in turn came to his side. He then knelt beside Cemnahin and placed the bow in his hands. "See the bird's hole in that tree?"  
  
Cemnahin squinted. "Yes, I believe so." It was a good ways away. Clear through the trees, as the target was, but further through the thicket.  
  
"Can you tell how far it is?"  
  
"Sure I can."  
  
It made the Dwarf  feel all sorts of funny, hearing Lindir's voice so near his near. His breath was soaked in lilac, his arms long as he reached them around Cemnahin and covered his hands with his own. The boy's brown eyes leapt in morning-blue when turning his head to hear the Elf’s words: “Things are sometimes farther than they seem, or closer for that matter. Can you tell which?” Then his hands fell from the Dwarf’s, and Cemnahin frowned at their absence.  
  
Cemnahin’s gaze turned back to the tree, and he tried to find the meaning of Lindir’s words. The tree stood in an area without much at its side, only with a quaint clearing encircling it. At one moment he judged its distance by the trees near him, but the shadows were wrong, and when he finally drew his string and shot his arrow hit the ground when it should have lodged into wood.  
  
Farther away, it would seem.  
  
“Try again,” Lindir encouraged when Cemnahin’s face etched lines of disappointment, and when his hands lead the boy’s to lift the bow higher, the Dwarf’s brow knitted in determination. His arm was more steady now, with the Elf’s hand over his bicep, and with a straight shot the arrow flew straight into the bird hole. When a terrible swauk emitted from it and several birds flew out, Cemnahin grinned and laughed.  
  
Lindir, however, was filled with concern, and it only left him when he checked to see that none had been hurt. All the while the boy teased him and prodded him to not be so estranged from humor.  
  
“Master Lindir,” Cemnahin finally said when the Elf had convinced him to begin heading back to Elrond’s house. The head of the house was nearing. “The Dwarves of Erebor, they didn’t die, did they?”  
  
“A good number did,” his other admitted, and they halted at the house steps. “But most moved East, across these parts and to the Blue Mountains.” Then, stooping down to meet Cemnahin’s eyes, Lindir added, “there is reason to believe that you are one of those people, Arasil.”  
  
Contrary to what was expected, Cemnahin scowled. “My home and people are here, nowhere else.”


	2. a shadow greater than the trees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The solitude of the jagged peaks and the clattering rocks under Lithuinem's hooves sent his heart beating wild and needy of air, and the brumal wind that slashed his face in the evenings left his nose and ears red and sore, and he felt more mature but young and _alive_ than ever before in the constant elation of awe at the impressive precipices of the looming vale."

Lithuinem was his pony. As all the ponies that the Elves bred, her coat was sleek as wet river stones, and she listened attentively to the words he whispered in her ear. Elvish lilted and poured out from his lips with as much ease as any tree-sitting Silvan, and she tossed her dark mane from her face so that he could pet her gray nose.

Today was Cemnahin’s fifty-fifth birthday, an interesting number, and he stood with Lithuinem at the foot of the valley with the others in his party that spent time filling their water skins in the river. Elrond’s sons stood on either side of him, as they were the head of this escort, and the nimble words that passed between them suddenly switched topic to him.

“Nervous?” Elrohir asked. His voice was weaved with a soothing calm. “Roughly two fortnights will complete this journey. It’s not long a time to be away.”  
  
Cemnahin rubbed his nose against the early morning cold, and he rose his other hand to grab his own water skin from Lithuinem’s pack. “I’m not worried about that,” he admitted, and stepped to the water’s edge. With a bow he filled it and stood regarding his reflection. “I’ll be able to keep up, won’t I?”  
  
He had Lithuinem, and though Cemnahin held a very high opinion of her, it still didn’t quite match the reverence he had for the towering steeds that the others rode. She couldn’t go as fast as they could; he’d tried before, alone in the woods.  
  
“Cemnahin,” Elrohir murmured, and Cemnahin looked behind when a hand was placed on his shoulder. “We won’t be racing there; you’ll be fine.”  
  
The young dwarf looked up at Elrond’s son and let a small smile pass over his lips, and his brown eyes after fell over the reflection of the water. Save height, Cemnahin brightened at their similarities. Long robes, ornate from collar to the leather of their light shoes. He wore his hair long, brushed and bearing two braids that wove together down the back of his neck, and at the crux of his collarbone was displayed a fine piece of gem and metal, silver veins rolling about a blue center.  
  
It was in the water that he often found himself in one of his more sullen moods, which were very few. There was a mysterious quality to it that silenced him, if but slightly, until he turned to the trees and woodland birds once more with a grin and glint of adventure shining in his bark-eyes. But, what he did not realize was that it was not any current that gripped his heart tight, as the rain often fell to find itself received kindly by his skin when it grew in the vast shimmers of the sky, where the heavenly water broke and cracked the tufts of milk. Instead, the intense quiet grew from rivers. They all observed him, threw up his image back over its glass panes, and etched its here unknown prophecy into his ravel of bones.

One could simply draw from their manner that this was no event for hunting nor scouting. The males in their embroidered garments cast their gazes about with an intent of guarding, as did the long-robed women, all weaving about the root of their branching steed lines: Arwen Undómiel, the light that shined where the lights of others were dulled, as she walked the earth and dimmed the skies to make herself the single star in the evening. At Lórien's call she was always quick to respond, and thus she parted and went.

Indeed, they parted from the forest streams and began traveling up the slopes of the valley. For the first leg of the journey the rode up the trails to the High Pass, and Cemnahin found himself farther from home than ever before, a Dwarf among Elves and a fleeting glimpse of falling dust among the spreading snowbanks. On occasion he rode behind his foster-sister in their single-filed procession through the twists of the mountain paths, but more often than naught he instead lingered near the back of the company to peer behind at the stretch of land that they left trodden and blurring in the distance. The solitude of the jagged peaks and the clattering rocks under Lithuinem's hooves sent his heart beating wild and needy of air, and the brumal wind that slashed his face in the evenings left his nose and ears red and sore, and he felt more mature but young and  _alive_  than ever before in the constant elation of awe at the impressive precipices of the looming vale.

When finally the familiar wall of rock at their shoulder had worn to an alcove akin to the ones they'd sporadically seen and stopped at, they pitched their tents for rest, and that night Cemnahin found himself being roused from a near sleep by a hand shaking his arm. His eyes opened grudgingly, but at seeing Elladan's face near his he sat up and quirked a brow. "What is it?"

"Have you heard of the Úvanimor?" His grey eyes were inquisitive, and seemed to expect a negative response.

However, Cemnahin was not one to forget tales as those. Melkor and his monster-folk had often snared in his tangling dreams, where Glorfindel rose in white armor throwing off hues of blood against the flames of the Balrog and his sword streaked to the hilt in the carnage of ogres and giants. There in the crevices of rock the corrupted Nauglath whispered and spied and hoarded gems as large as fists in their dark halls; what vicarious glory that had been found in the warrior-child of Ilúvatar would all too soon become muddled with the unwanted share of ancestry with such creatures. What relevancy these villains had to this night was beyond his sleep-clouded mind.

"Yes," he said, and with a mind of their own his hands moved to draw his blankets closer.

"Then put on your boots and travel-cloak, for tonight you, Gailthin, Elrohir and I are to speak to Cûn."

The burst of questions flooding his mind didn't detain him from slipping out of his sheets and moving across the small length of the tent to his pack, but nonetheless he asked confusedly, "who is Cûn?" With such a name as  _bent_  and being in relation to the Úvanimor he felt as taken aback as he did curious, and he reached for his finer garb.

"No, only your boots and cloak. Looking fair will mean little on our errand."

Thus, Cemnahin threw his cloak over his shoulders and night clothes, and he made quick work of his laces until his feet were warm and treading across the camp to a stone bend their day's travel had not yet reached. The night's cold pressed him to use his hood while they passed each faintly-lit tent, the warm light bleeding through the slivered entrances in the canvas. At reaching the end of the small encampment they were met with the Elf-maiden Gailthin, whose black hair streaked back from her face by a wind of long braids, and the Dwarf's other foster-brother who nodded them on their way.

Their steeps teetered near the break of the ledge as they shifted onto the rock-hewed path, the gray stone lit by a moon that passed by transparent clouds. The tumbling of loose rocks was not much of a fright any longer, as Cemnahin was there on the ground on his own heels, and so a surety was in him allowed him to keep away from the wall faces to peer down at the chasms of deepened shadows below. Elladan and Gailthin had taken to quiet words as tall shapes on the path ahead.

Cemnahin's face contorted in the silvery light. "I do not know Dwarvish," he replied, for that had been the question from archeress to son of Elrond. Her eyes snapped back to regard him, the plains of her face drawn by the lengths of the shadows that spread there, and because of it he only saw the absence of expression that lay there. "There aren't any teachers of it to be had in Rivendell; and what of it? It matters not."

He hadn't realized the defensiveness in his tone until Elrohir put a hand on his back to rub out the tenseness there, and he let a held in breath forth into the nipping air. "Those like Cûn were not first taught our tongue, _pen-neth_ , or if it were so they'd long forgotten it. When the Dwarves had come to these mountains they took to their language more naturally, for it reverenced the mountain stones. Nonetheless, they've learned Sindarin again over time."

"Is Cûn some sort of mountain dweller, then?" Cemnahin pressed, and a breeze of Elvish laugh shot into the vale.

"Less of a mountain dweller and more the mountain itself: a stone-giant. Cûn guards this road, for it is in need of protection." The Dwarf nearly halted, but settled on looking up at Elrohir in wonder.

"Dwarves hardly pass through these parts any longer. I'd only wondered what reception your kind would be greeted to on these cliffs," Gailthin admitted, and at another curve they quickened their pace down the now straight path that warned a break in the path ahead. Except, as they moved further, Cemnahin realized that the path was blocked. Though between the drop into the valley and the abrupt wall of stone the path held the broadness of five horses shoulder to shoulder, whether by rockslides or simple formation they eventually ended afore a mass of dark rock that didn't leave any possible way of crossing.

The Elf-woman stooped next to the formation and bowed her head as if falling into discussion, and Cemnahin looked at his foster-brothers in hope of explanation. However, whatever low words she'd spoken may have been, there was a sudden groan of weight lifting, and a clamor of rock scraping rock and sending stones skidding into the space below sent an unearthly noise ricochet in echo about the mountain flanks. It was only Elrohir's hand at his shoulder and gripping his cloak that stopped him from stumbling back, because of the shaking earth below him or the strike of fear he felt irrelevant. At that moment all his brown eyes knew were the rising tower of stone coming out from the rock-side, the way the stars were cut from the sky by the outline of this huge form, how there the thing revealed arms out from its jagged sides and gripped the side of the wall that ran astride them as if to brace its massive bulk from falling.

Cemnahin nearly yelled aloud when it spoke in his tongue. "The path is open," it said, and its voice was of grating earth and nearly not speaking Elvish at all, for its tone was strangled and straight and without any song.

"This is Cûn?" was his murmur, his voice unbelieving and quite strangled as well.

"This is Cûn," Elladan affirmed, but Cûn was already leaning over them and casting a shadow greater than the trees of Imladris over their trifled figures. It took Cemnahin only a moment to pick out what piece of rock was the giant's head, but in doing so he realized that it seemed to be faced towards him.

Then came a rumble, then a terrible grating sound, and after finally something that could have been discerned as words, if it weren't foreign to him. This speech was much more fluent to Cûn so it seemed, for the giant's halted tone grew calmer and fit the sharp vowels that it shaped. _"Khuzdith,"_ it said, and Cemnahin stepped back, but never enough to escape its shadow. His quick glances at Gailthin and Elrohir didn't help his racing heart either, though the former simply looked intrigued and the latter never let his shoulder go. _"Mahzirikhi zu gang ghukhil."_

In all Cûn's verbal earnest Cemnahin felt only confusion, and after a moment of anxiousness he uttered hesitantly, "Gailthin? _Apua nin!"_

It just so happened to be that he didn't need the Elf-maiden's help at all, for at his plea for assistance the shadow suddenly withdrew and Cûn simply limbered up the face of the mountain until the rocky shape was but a motionless overhang that studied the shadowed basin. Gailthin gave him a tight smile and waved them back towards the encampment, and Cemnahin felt as though he did something wrong.

* * *

The passage over the mountains was eventless after that, with the way having been opened and Gailthin's last visit to Cûn to close the road once more sealed with the blushing morning sky as her only companion.

There was a deep-seated fondness to be found in the peak of their path when the slope finally turned down for the last time and a distant land in the sun blossomed into their view, and the last of the cold winds and low clouds broke to the sunlight and whispering streams of melting snow that raced them down the ways. And what arrant joy he felt with Lithuinem's hooves slowly breaking over thatches of browned grass, the endless Greenwood yonder they turned to flank as they journeyed, a burst of brown-winged creatures bursting from the bushes around them at their silent coming. The lack of woodland didn't lessen any thankfulness from his heart to be out of the damp stone trails they'd left behind; having met Cún had suddenly left his heart bothered and cold.

An early spring's nip still caught him unawares at times, and Cemnahin often found himself placing the old blanket of furs over his shoulders during the night. It was a relic of his forgotten past, when he was still nameless and in the confines of a wooden wagon; they were his parents', Glorfindel had said. They smelled like comfort and like pines and mud after the year's thaw and made him feel unbearably unnerved. _Too old_ is what he'd named it, for they were well used and in his constant opinion in need of replacing, but his tree-sitting companions had named it something else.

"Old?" was the query that came from the Silvan's upturned mouth. Cemnahin nodded.

With a mournful sigh, "they won't let me be rid of them."

"What do the trees smell like today, _tithen mellon?"_ And so he inhaled through his nose, and fresh leaves and seeping sap through bark soaked into his skull, made him feel the best sorts of drunk. They sat around a smoking, put-out campfire during that afternoon, with flecks of winged bugs dotting about the carpet of grass, the sun ripened as a golden apple floating in a lofty blue river. The slender rough-fleshed trunks stood as they ever did.

"What do I look like today? Don't be shy." And when the Elf leaned closer, the foster-son of Elrond leaned back and nearly fell off his spot on the mossy rock in a fit of chortles.

After having rubbed his nose, Cemnahin said, "the same as ever, to the both of them! Why, should there be any difference today?"

"The trees are much older than your parents' furs, and as for me, I've seen the mothers of these trees sprout and fall in this very clearing; but, you didn't say that we have any peculiar signs of age." Cemnahin blinked wide and owlishly at the other's face now so close, an angled Elven jaw moving and sharp end of a long nose flaring at each take of breath. "Creatures like you and I, who live longer than the Men of Middle-earth, are fated for sentiment and imprisonment in our memories, Cemnahin," breath, "and yet you seek to free yourself of such weights." Breath. "It isn't any wearing away that makes you want to toss them, is it?"

 _I don't understand,_ the Dwarf thought, but something in the Silvan's words moved him to nod his head.

"You want to be rid of your past, your connections with something," breath, and Cemnahin breathed with him, "that you have never known, but that intertwines with who everyone sees you to be. And you don't understand why it must be that way, I know." Breath, and Cemnahin flushed and suddenly felt like a child at this consoling voice. "Let them serve you as your anchors to the earth, so that you may stay grounded, or else a little thing might you might be blown up into the sky."

He'd rather have been at the top of the mother branches to become acquainted with the sky and look back down at the ground as an old friend fated for farewells.

A bowl of warm stew was passed into his pinkened hands, and Cemnahin nodded his thanks whilst sinking further into the furs over him. They were comforting, held the warm waft of home, and set him into a dulled notion of seclusion around the host of Elves.

That evening they camped under the stars dimly poking through a bruising sky, and lay the marshland that spread around was ripening for night as it buzzed in the welling croon of crickets and night bugs. The horses stood as dimming outlines against the reed banks and knee-high, supple grass they lazily grazed on, and Cemnahin moved to near them until his quick eyes caught the bouts of moving glitter that moved past the steeds: fireflies, like the ones that were cupped in adolescent hands and thrown to enchant his foster-father's halls. His palms were spread over the bowl and fingers prickling in its warmth, careful not to slosh the soup about the skins on him as he moved to his pony. "This is a strange place, isn't it?"

Loeg Ningloron hummed back, and the purple in the vaults above began to turn to the influence of his ancestor's eyes. Lithuinem only sneezed, causing the horses to shuffle. Cemnahin's eyes lingered from the Misty Mountains that still shadowed near them to the distant Greenwood abroad, as the dusk was clear and hills not so moving. However, as the days rolled to morning and passed in a sweep of gloom the forest were lessened in interest compared to their new competitor, a woodland that one day appeared south as they rode up the gradual slopes to part from the wetlands.

It wasn't as much nestled at the side of the mountain as Lothlórien was the roots of the lofty peeks, as even from miles away the phantom skins of the tree trunks echoed the grey of the cliffs and snows, and the birthing spring blossomed the leaves in dashes of green shooting from bare-boned branches. Of course, it was too great a distance to see the trees that would not give their leaves to the winter, as the fabled _mallorn_ were gold in the winter and had not yet bore their flowers or silver nuts.

Indeed, just as Elrohir had said, a fortnight had brought them upon the curving tree-line that flushed against a dewed stretch of grass still in the yellowed cusp of morning's low sun. There they slipped off their steeds and lead them by rein to finally walk about the trees once more, where Cemnahin found that not all woodlands could be called home, and that not every Elf was inclined to name him kin.

They took his heart in a single glance, for they stood far up in the treetop and looked down from such great heights of dignity about the golden leaves. Hair threaded like his Glorfindel's, just as the summer light; a grace as they moved down the tree platforms that was unknown to his taut thews and vigor, all thickening his limbs in time to combat a before litheness that immaturity of body had given him; there, in their eyes, a fondness to Arwen and his foster-brothers before a shadow passed in their expressions as their gazes graced him.

"Long has it been since you've honored us with your presence in Laurelindórenan, Arwen," one said, whose comely face had not taken a contorted shape. A bow proceeded, met by the dipping head of the Lady Evenstar. "The Lady Galadriel will be gladdened to hear of your coming."

"I am always joyed to return to Caras Galadhon, Orophir," and her voice was as the morning dew, and the sparse leaves above shuddered kindly in the wind.

This was not to say that Cemnahin was enjoying these pleasantries. All the while another Elf had stepped before him to cast his steely eyes over the small Dwarf with an unpleasant set in his jaws, an offish pause to look over his frame. _"Sum Narag?"_

Whatever was said - Cemnahin knew not what those words meant - it certainly caught the attention of these Galadhrim that may not have taken notice of him before. A host of eyes bore down on him and he stood confused and small, so very short compared to these long-limbed creatures, and his heart dropped in all sorts of anxiety when an ill feeling soaked the balmy air. However, Arwen turned to him and moved closer to place a hand on his back. "This is Cemnahin, a Dwarf-orphan adopted under my father," she said, her Elvish words something he could understand once again. "He is not yet learned in Westron-"

"-but the tongues of Elvish have ever natively been known to him," Elrohir finished, his voice full of reproach as he looked sharply at the startled others, especially when the surprise melted into rude disbelief. They glanced at one another in silent question. The Elf that had first spoken to him seemed dismayed as well, but thankfully he was not rebuking in face, or Cemnahin would have acted upon his impulse to simply run from all the judging eyes.

 _"Earthen child."_ Finally that burning glower was released from him, and it softened politely to moved to Arwen. "In what time has an Elf ever fostered a Dwarf, or given one a Sindar name?"

The hand on his back slipped to grip his shoulder. His heart beat so fast that his head was beginning to spin, that his mouth was drying. "In this time, Marchwarden." Her bluest eyes met his own evenly, and the Marchwarden looked away. He signaled his hand for the others to prepare guiding the way before turning back to Arwen.

After a long pause, "he will not be allowed further." The Lady Evenstar and her two brothers looked up in aback, but there was no protest to be had; the Marchwarden bowed a last time before moving on with the before named Orophir and left Cemnahin to trail back through the woods with Elrohir and Elladan and their horses to the tents that had been pitched the night before on the outskirts of Lórien. All the while the Dwarf's eyes ashamedly blurred, and he blinked hard to send the stinging away. 

The morning was truly beautiful, with clouds rolling down the lower ridges of the mountain to riddle the sky in a spotted cream froth, but he merely stared down at his feet when they arrived. There his foster-brothers took Lithuinem and set her to graze upon the grasses with their own steeds before returning to him in gentle smiles and words.

"Do not find fault in Haldir or his folk; they are truly a courteous people, but have no want in a change of thought, as it were," and Elladan added, "perhaps next time they will be more accommodating."

It was said comfortingly, but Cemnahin only felt bitterness.

* * *

Arwen was to return in several year's time, so he and his brothers waited there at the start of the forest until the others came back that night and they began to journey back home. After having seen the roads the next fortnight passed quickly for Cemnahin, and many of the thoughts on his mind lead back to the Marchwarden of Lothlórien, his brother Orophir and the others and their demeaning stares; how Arwen and her night blue garments sloped over the back of her horse Asthôn and moved on their flight to the mysterious Caras Galadhon, a place never to be seen by his inferior eyes.

It was if he had never left Imladris, where the tree-Elves greeted him and Lindir welcomed him back from the ground as he sat atop the tree branches, leaving the earth below as a distant memory.

His foster-fathers met him too in the dining halls where the harps thrummed like Manwë's western winds and fiddles brought flavors to the juice-pooling elk on the table, the poultry served with a dotting of cooked herbs that drenched the room in a redolence of gluttonous temptations. Platters of steamed leeks and artichokes were set before his widened eyes; they moved there to the goblets of light wine and puddings and sets of cut fruits ready for eating. Though, no matter what excited anticipation he always carried to sit again at Elrond's table, Cemnahin's exit from the feast was quick, and his feet carried him to the library after many a corridor.

What evening light that came yawning through the windows only plastered far over the floors, leaving his dark hair to blend in the deepening color of grey robes, and the long shadows over his face to add length to the fan of his lashes and locks of unruly hair that began to escape his silver circlet. His jaw was shadowed by the late day stubble beginning to seep from his skin like hints of smudging dark ink on a fleshy parchment. Cemnahin's brown eyes traveled about bindings to scroll runes to the next piece of text and his fingertips touched these all and finally bent to pull out a single book, covered by a green stained leather kept in good quality. Eased footsteps brought him to face a window, and there the Dwarf sat on the tiles against a bookshelf and peered within its pages to find words and drawings he'd nearly memorized out of countless reads.

Here, the tale of Gil-galad and Galadriel, whose efforts brought the spiring _mallorn_ trees; a few pages further, a depiction of low rivers he'd seen not a week before; in the fine print of golden ink came great praise of Laurelindórenan's soil, and its keeper who kept an enchanted white ring on her noble hand. Somewhere all in between, a difference: Cemnahin found that while this harbored hurt would not leave him, all magic of Lothlórien had somewhere been blown away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to the fact that of course Tolkien did not work on all his languages to a point of perfection, I took the liberty to research and fill in words I needed in some scenarios for sake of flow (see _apua (Finnish)_ and _sum (Old English) _). Of course, with that given, I was sure to stay true to the linguistic influences that Tolkien drew from to build these so that I could achieve as much authenticity as possible.__
> 
>   **Translations:**
> 
>  _pen-neth_ – little one  
>  _khuzdith_ \- little dwarf  
>  _mahzirikhi zu gang ghukhil_ \- I wish you a safe journey  
>  _aupa nin_ \- help me  
>  _tithen mellon_ \- little friend  
>  _sum Narag?_ \- a Dwarf?
> 
> My headcanon on stone-giants is [here](http://kingbard.tumblr.com/post/55679497556); just linking this in case you all are curious about my reasons for slipping one into the story!


	3. the black between the stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "...it was always in the night when his isolation grew great and it seemed as though all that was left was the black between the stars seeping down to silently envelope him."

It was only on the clearest mornings when in the distance of Imladris Valley yawned fully to show the faroff Rhudaur. This expanse of new lands nestled near the horizon under Cemnahin’s watchful gaze, miles beyond the valley that confined his stocky limbs and chest, the blanket of stubble itching under the skin of his jaw. By narrowing his eyes he could almost see the hidden sun, spilling rays of light from between cracks in the clouds. Quickly though he looked back to the road and nudged Celegnen, his pony, onward to proceed with the rest of the party that moved on away from Rivendell.

The horizon hid a sight that Cemnahin had not looked upon before until weeks into their journey: great waves breaking across this new grey harbor, its deepening blue making up for the darkness in the autumn overcast that reigned above. For what length it took to arrive to Mithlond that sat in burden to such untempered waves, all manners of sights had reached the Dwarf's eyes would bear fruit to the idea of a desolate Rhudaur: The fickle pine leaves of the Ettenmoors, so easy in losing their colors to a still distant first snowfall; a quick skirting of the Lone-lands with many a shrub and golden glaze, still slack and all fluid hills like honeycomb. None of Bree out of mindfulness, and only the very outskirts of what seemed to be the offish Shire, as so much of the land's roof was a simple sky laden with the low-hanging fog of an ending year. Whether it be leaves or wooden beams in quarter confines, for him a ceiling made a home, which the Shire seemed to lack as they traversed in open land. And so they passed, and Mithlond stood in waiting at their coming.

The port was tented by generous canopies and high Elven-domes that towered over the ocean in a stone watchfulness, and it was there that he and the company finally arrived to see off a group of curious Silvans—so curious were they that they drew more attention than the one youthful Dwarf of Elrond’s people. For all Cemnahin's differences to his adoptive kin there was one he'd not heard of except by song or written word until one of these few selected began to grow dreamy-eyed, ever watching the west parts of the lands as if being called; it was indeed the call that he saw work in the spirits of these chosen. It was the first time in centuries, an age, even, that Elves felt compelled by the sea to travel back to their fabled lands, and yet these did, and so they went, with company of five-score and over suddenly springing from the trails of the land to meet at the grey harbor. In the youth's mind, it was one of the few things he was grateful for, that he was not fated to yearn for a place not truly his own. It was a call for a ship and sails and gulls, and Cemnahin understood it not as he stood at the pillars a ways away from the harbor, watching the myriad of the Firstborn all staring at the glimmering waves and singing in reverence for a distant home.

There the boat parted with heavy white sails and came an ominousity in the hearts of those left behind. What could it mean, that for an age none left this home-from-home across the sea, until now? Cemnahin heard whisperings of dark times impending and an exodus of Elves, but those were sparse murmurs in the shadow of what times of peace they lived in now. And, as he walked the port corridors in his own private explorations, there were more whispers to be heard in the dark.

Elrond, foster-Father, had taken to tucking himself in one of the indoor corridors whose windows looked out to the dock with another, a tall figure that stood facing away. The climate in the room was such that Cemnahin only lingered in the dark of the hall, silent and straining his ears to hear the hushed conversation. For a time it was a continuous unintelligible murmur that frustrated him; then, as seconds trickled by, the hisses of a s at the end of was, or the t at the beginning of taken when their words began to make sense and he could fully hear away after it. These were Elrond’s words, a voice Cemnahin was accustomed to spy on during his Lord’s more private conversations while the younger was in his bored moods. However, the stranger Elrond spoke to was a different matter.

This one was an Elf, certainly, but not of those from Rivendell that had traveled to Mithlond, for his garb was lighter like the residents of Mithlond and tone of voice, darker. Perhaps it was the latter that led this stranger’s words to travel so well to ears more accustomed to lofty pitches, where Cemnahin leaned in and the other spoke: “It is for you to determine on your own, this possibility. It was not my intent to place uncertainty in your mind, Lord Elrond, but simple caution. Let him make his own paths when he reaches his sixty-fifth year and fate might take him, rather than your love might try to shelter him in vain. Already he has missed pivotal learnings otherwise deemed essential as one of his race, one being learning his language by his family—his true family, or even how he has not met another of his kind in his lifetime. It cannot be told what a thing as that has done to him already. Surely isolation settles in him as a falling shadow in his mind already, haunting him with all his differences from our Elven-folk; this is the one thing that you cannot shelter him from, for as long as he stays, the longer this shadow grows, and all the more it will deepen.”

“You have spoken enough, Eglamír,” Elrond replied, and though his voice was tempered and cool, its volume raised to a point where Cemnahin quickly shifted further from the entrance from the jolt that shook him. “Your words have been heard, and I shall consider them, but counsel is nothing I asked for.”

There was no mistake on who the topic concerned during such talk and a great stillness settled over Cemnahin, where he could hardly help but stand and wonder what possibility concerning him they spoke of, if Elrond would turn him away from his house once he came of age, how it felt as though he’d been hit at the mentioning what was becoming of him through what could only be called a great rift between him and his peers, where differences seemed to greaten each passing summer, and even his Elves that sang in the trees beckoned him less and less. There was still very much a thrill of life in him, but rarely did it surface to dance in the sun, for where joy had once poured from his eyes and fingers and throat in song now came pensive, if not darker, moods that riddled about his face and mind. It was becoming increasingly certain that the Last Homely House would soon be the a home he must leave, just as the Silvans this day left Middle-Earth at a beckon on the wind.

“Then not counsel, but a story, is all I beg to offer. Years ago,” this Eglamír began, much to Elrond’s visible displeasure, “I converged by chance with refugee Dwarves fleeing from the Lonely Mountain. They were near to arriving Bree on the East Road, and I had just traveled from Eryn Vorn up the Baranduin.

“It was from that course that I found them and helped a royal family seek shelter from the cold that night. Durins, as the Lady Dís told me, they were; somewhere in that company was Thorin Oakenshield leading lead his people on the last leg of his journey to the Blue Mountains. But it was Eryn Vorn and its darkness that plagued my mind then, and what I had seen there.”

Cemnahin’s mouth grew sticky, but the festering warning in his heart failed its attempt at taming what stubborn intrigue had overcome him. Eryn Vorn was a place of evil, so he’d heard, and whatever unknown business this Elf had there marked him as stranger than before; frightening, even, to such a youth as a Dwarf whose own fate was being discussed by such foreign lips. And still, Eglamír continued.

“Ulmo walked with that river, Baranduin, that day in the early parts of my return journey when I came back upstream, and a golden woman was shown below the surface. She was drowned and wide-eyed as though faced by a dragon the very moment before her death. I stood on a low precipice looking down upon this sight in confusion more than in fear, not knowing how a maiden as this would be near such a place as Númenor’s Black Woods, or how she came to fall—and it was then that the descending sun spread upon her vanishing face in red light, and a sky threw brightness on the fast-running water when it lightened with a coming western storm.” His voice was growing lower and Cemnahin was leaning further, wide-eyed as though faced by a dragon, wary of breathing, rigid from fear of moving, lest a ghost with wet and dripping golden hair grab him from behind. “Half a fortnight this apparition stayed in my mind, kept there in all its ominous tellings, until there Lady Dís sat before me with a son in her arms, and his brother sitting near. When the babe was sheathed comfortably near his mother and the red fireflame, my memory wrought what name it had been ever so straining to remember: Nienor.”

A name Cemnahin had never heard before, but he knew that something had changed in the manner Elrond was listening to the other by a sudden deep crease that scarred across his foster-father’s face.

“As Glaurung’s eye bore its own violent luster and a reddened last light of sun spilled over a haunted river, the fire did over this Dwarvern babe. There in her arms was a child that was lost on the road before the next moon, when before he had been under such loving eyes as a caring mother who had strewn his hair with plain silver, was held dear by a vigilant uncle ruined by fire…was loved by an unassuming brother…”

A silent breath of before restrained air parted him when his foster-father curtly cut what else Eglamír might have said, though the stranger’s voice had already dissipated with its omen already told and left to dance frightfully in Cemnahin’s fast beating heart. “As I said before, you have spoken enough. No fates as those keep him, unless you are to tell me next that the Lord of the Dark walks again only to curse a once-orphaned Dwarvern child.” If before Elrond’s voice had been masked with politeness, now no such reservations were taken into account. He held a silence for a moment, daring the other to reply, and when ceased to answer he continued. “When word was sent that Círdan wished me to speak to one who can see where the Ainur work, I had not expected this.”

Then he took to pacing. Despite the more rational workings of his mind warning against it, Cemnahin chanced a peer further through the archway again and saw Eglamír for a second time, but the Elf was staring at the floor as a child that was finished being scolded would. When Elrond turned, striding before this other again, Cemnahin veered back and pressed his back upon the wall.

“Is that all, then?” He asked.

“Yes, Lord Elrond.” Then feet began to click in nearer to the entrance the Dwarfling stood at. By the time he passed through, Cemnahin had already ran outside for the coastal winds to embrace his already shivering form. 

* * *

They all stood against the evening wind, and the water flanking the port was burdened with blanketing golden light from the yonder sunset falling behind the world. He lingered aside his three foster-siblings at a respectful distance, though still quite tucked away under their shadows, and there he listened to the welling canticle of those nearest the dock and to the cold-breathed whisperings of the winds that billowed the sails and drove the ships swiftly across to chase Anar dropping. It was this clear portrait that Cemnahin wished to remember of Mithlond and its sorrowfully beautiful ports, but as Elrond and his people finally departed back on the road to Imladris, what stayed with him most were the whispers of curses and fire.

At first there was a great feeling of unsettlement that had taken to residing in him, a fear of not knowing who Nienor was, or why there might be some curse on him revealed on surfaces of water, reflecting there the etchings on his bones that slowly afflicted his thoughts more and more with a single need to leave his home.

It was such a thought, this sudden realization, that came to Cemnahin as he and Lord Elrond’s folk trailed along the hidden trails of the backwoods of the Shire. This was his first time so near Bree, and it would not be so hard to find it, given how the roads in these parts seemed to stray to its place nestled in the hills. And how enthralling the thought was to simply leave, to not have to feel each day wear on him with all his perceptions of inadequacy! There was an impending doom somewhere in his future, of this Cemnahin was sure, and what else was there to do but escape it? But even so, he had not the courage to part from his people as they passed through the older paths of the west, and even upon returning to Rivendell through the familiar pass of Imladris, there was regret deep in his mind for what opportunity he had failed to sow.

It was this regret that stayed with him and several nights later burned him with a fired inspiration as he hurriedly pushed spare clothes into a travel bag. It was past time when the moon sat in the sky highest, for dreams of the waking kind had hindered Cemnahin from sleep, all containing deepening notions of abandonment birthed from the stray looks he would receive from Elrond and Glorfindel after their journey to Mithlond, all disettling and riddled with caution. He was marked, and the knowledge of this tumbled onto him with such weight that all he saw left to do was flee to escape what conditions had caused him to bear it: living with those he did not belong to.

Cemnahin’s hands were clumsy with adrenaline brought by an understanding of what he was about to do as he shut the bag’s clasp and dimmed the lantern in his room to null, leaving his vision dark and unadjusted. With a new soldier’s brashness and the stealth of a coward he then stole away out from Elrond’s house. His breath was quickened and heartbeat knocking in his chest, for he knew better than to leave without saying a word, but it was always in the night when his isolation grew great and it seemed as though all that was left was the black between the stars seeping down to silently envelope him. Feet crossed the stone paths with little more noise than the rustling of leaves.

However, Cemnahin’s fleeing form was not lost under the watchful eyes of One.

“Where will you go, Arasil?”

The metal handle of the stable doors was cold against his hand, and the voice behind him caused his heart to leap into his throat. Slowly he turned, and there Lindir strode forward with his hand already pushing back the hood of his cloak.

Cemnahin found his voice quickly and repeated, “Where will I go?” His tone was guarded, pretending to not understand while admitting guilt all at once.

“If you will not stay here, where will you go? To a town of men that you have never seen? To the Shire, a place that does not willingly harbor those not of their kind? I have seen how you have sealed yourself away, but you will not leave like this.” Lindir’s usual short-worded exchanges was now evolved to a greater speech of authority. “Your home is here.”

“What is a home, when one does not feel welcome in it?” Cemnahin questioned back. The Elf before him steeled his jaw visibly, but let the silence grow until he further spoke. So he did. “I have loved my foster-father and his hospitality in his house for all these years, but now I only feel weary with all my difference with him, and you, and my siblings. I wish to be rid of it!” His eyes flashed in the moonlight, and his brow pinched to etch all his distress over his expression. “Be it now or some time from now, I shall leave. I will never be as risen as ye High Folk, and that I cannot bear to see day by day for a lifetime. So what matter is it to you, when it is my time to depart?”

The venom in the Dwarf’s voice was such that Lindir stepped back and allowed his before unwavering expression to fall. “Of course it is of my concern,” and his voice was softer than before, the quiet after the storm of Cemnahin’s tone that had ravaged the valley’s calm quiet. “To now see such pain in your heart pains me, Arasil, as it would pain all others who love you.” Speaking these words he knelt afore him and took a hand between his palms with great care. “Stay, and if you do not care for my counsel, hear Lord Elrond’s. But if you would listen, hear this: That those of this valley have never looked down on you, and we you have shared your life with are most grateful to have such a presence of light as you grace us. You are spoken of as a blessing wherever you pass. Please rid yourself of this shadowed doubt, for it fills us with sorrow; and we already have so much aside from watching one we care for so deeply fall into misery.”

Cemnahin found himself blinking away a burning in his eyes and sniffing at the sudden congestion in his nose. Yet, surprising even to himself, he was smiling. All seemed better whenever Lindir took his hand.

But there it was, in Lindir’s eyes. Now that they were so close Cemnahin saw all there was to read in those depths: the caution, the hesitance. Fear. If he were a hound, the Elf would be rank with it. “Who is Neinor?”

Lindir did not pull his hands away. He hardly even blinked, or fidgeted away. Instead, he stilled. He gazed carefully at the Dwarf before him, and the Dwarf looked back longly in return. “At Mithlond, was it? When you overheard what council they had?” The questions asked for no answers, however, and he only nodded to himself. “She lived ages ago, cursed. But not you.”

“You say it with such surety, as though you did not just look upon me as Elrond has since returning. Please be truthful with me, Lindir, for all others who I call family will hardly look at me, nonetheless those I call friend, who take such caution at my presence that I feel I might be some feared beast. I can hardly stand it!” The burning in his eyes released tears, but his face did not bend at his crying; only frustration creased it, and such helplessness that Lindir’s spirit lurched at its visible manifestation on the countenance he always thought was so fair.

“I fear because a thought can be made true. Prove them wrong. Show them you are not afflicted with such a fate. But if you believe it, it will be. You are not cursed, but fearful yourself, of these doubtful tellings being true.”

Cemnahin nodded also, and wrapped his fingers more firmly around the other’s slender digits. “What if it is true, that I am a Durin? Nienor may have been unknown to me, but not Glaurung. If she was afflicted by the first dragon, could curses not be begotten by such a beast as Smaug?”

“No,” Lindir replied. The surety in his voice was absolute. “Though a Durin you may be, or not, Smaug has no such power. Nor has any other being in Middle-Earth for thousands of years.”

Though still unsure, much of Cemnahin’s frustrations began to lift. However, a current of fate still moved about him. It pressed him to still look at the stable door, to the woodlands that spread out over the view of the valley, and he was only brought back when Lindir squeezed his hand. “Even if that be true, I still do not belong here.” When the Elf smiled at him, he felt taken aback.

“Of course you do! Oromë led Glorfindel and his band on a hunt near a century ago, and He let them to a wagon on the East Road. It is not by chance that they found you, of that I have no doubt. And now, look at you!” He released Cemnahin’s hand and gestured to him entirely. “You are hardly a product of Dwarvish rearing. Even your face has riddles of Elf-kind, and I am sure that no Dwarf since the First Age has spoken the High Tongue with such ease. Never has a Dwarf been so near to being an Elf, truly.”

This drew a laugh out of the younger. “You brighten my heart, Master Lindir. To travel would be a grand thing nonetheless. Meeting the world through my eyes rather than with books and scrolls is something I have found myself desiring more and more.”

“You are nearly of age where you will be able to travel with, or without, Lord Elrond, if you wish it so. It will not be so much longer, my Arasil.”

Then he took Cemnahin back to Elrond’s house and walked him to his bedroom door, all the while Lindir retreating to the more open modes of conversation that the Dwarf so loved to participate in. Not often was his current escort so open an Elf, and rather took to his duties more than passing casual words with others, or so Cemnahin realized after a time at least. It seemed as though it was only he that was allowed to hear about Lindir’s travels outside of Imladris, to see his strength unveiled while shooting a bow, to blush at the warm smile that sometimes graced his face, or even more rare, a laugh that stilled Cemnahin’s heart with awe.

Lindir stopped short at the entrance of the Dwarf’s room and bade him a good night, and when Cemnahin entered and shut the door, he leaned upon it and listened to the long pause before the other walked away. If Elrond’s right hand were a maiden and not a male he figured that he would rightly be taken with him, try to court him like Beren had courted Lúthien, mortal and youthful and so in awe of her beauty in the woods.

The warmth he felt did not leave him until he surrendered to sleep.

* * *

Time went on and all seemed stagnant. Cemnahin noticed that Lindir would appear more often, always in his usual polite and kind way, and he was grateful for the attention received, along with how it seemed as though word of what he had tried to do had not been passed to Elrond. A part of him, however, wished as though it had.

The Lord of Imladris was ever as he had taken to acting as of late: quiet and pensive in the Dwarf’s presence, and hesitant as well. For all the kindness Cemnahin had been shown from his foster-father in past times, the absence of it now was stark and noticeable, and yet it continued. Even what tree-sitting Silvans he had befriended in childhood took notice and followed in suit, still friendly but guarded all the same.

More often than ever before it was not hunting or practicing his aim that he went into the woods for. For the first time he found himself quite elf-like in manners of thought, where he would let himself be embraced by the seclusion of the trees to allow his thoughts to wander. The secret behind Neinor remained unknown to him, for no text had yielded an answer, but there was much else to seek answers to: Was it truly his fate to leave so soon? What could be done about this? The night in front of the stables would replay in his mind as though it was the key, but still he sought something more.

It was in these lonely settings that it came to him, more out of frustration than reflection. Cemnahin was brash and forward as a child, but as he grew he hid it to be more akin to the personalities of his people. But, why was that? Sometimes even Arwen would disagree with her father, for she was a strong-willed spirit, and fair and gentle qualities did not exempt obstinate instances. The realization even made him dispirited for a time as he continued pacing through the hidden clearing he’d found that day, paying no mind to the ruckus he made in the quietened woods. The cracks in the walls he’d built in his mind began revealing themselves, how they did not aid him in any way to be happier among his adopted people, but set himself up for misery instead.

He was not an Elf.

Cemnahin stopped in his tracks, stared at his feet, how the grass slowly rose up again from where his footsteps had been a moment before. This was nothing to be so shocked at, he told himself immediately afterwards, nothing to cause his stomach to turn and squeeze his heart as if trying to pop it like a tomato. And yet all these happened, and he thought back on all the times when Glorfindel had taught him of the custom of Dwarves (to which he did not listen), to Lindir and his stories of dragons and the Mountain Kings (which he tried not to think of), to Elrohir soothing him in his times of discomfort when exactly this thought confronted him, the one he pushed away time and time again.

And yet, though Elves seemed to look down on his kind so often, disapproving of their actions, Lindir had stopped him from leaving. He called him a blessing.

A feeling of rashness he had not felt the likes of in many a year came over him. Rash and energized, fired as a Dwarf might feel in his passionate ways. Elrond of Imladris, Lord of the Valley, would give him answers, no matter the cost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Comments** are hugely appreciated and are really, for better or for worse, my greatest motivators. I write things mainly for you all! (:


End file.
